


The Weight of Living

by through_shadows_falling



Series: Supernatural Ficlets [25]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Castiel's Handprint, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, Mark of Cain, Men of Letters Bunker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-05
Updated: 2015-07-05
Packaged: 2018-04-07 19:09:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4274700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/through_shadows_falling/pseuds/through_shadows_falling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Dean, are you alright?” Cas said again, because of course it was Cas. The angel had spent the night again - though Dean couldn’t imagine why. If Cas really wanted to watch him turn into the demon he really was, well, then that was his choice. </p><p>Which was funny, because before, Dean couldn’t make Cas stay. </p><p>And now, he couldn’t make the stubborn bastard go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Weight of Living

**Author's Note:**

> Based on this anon prompt: "Heya, I have a ficlet idea if that's okay? Where Dean is in the bunker and he's having a really bad day, sitting at the table. Cas walks in and sees him like this, and tries to comfort him, but before he can say anything Dean ends up in tears as he spills to Cas how terrible he's feeling. Cas remains silent for a bit, then places his hand where the handprint on Dean's shoulder used to be. And then they both just KNOW how they each feel about each other. Thank you, whether you do it or not! :)"

Dean’s shoulders sagged as he slumped in the war room chair. He closed his eyes and rubbed them until colors burst behind his eyelids.

 _God_  he was tired.

The Mark had kept him up all night last night. The nightmarish kaleidoscope of images were distorted, disfigured, but Dean knew that they all involved death. The blood, the violence, the thrill…he woke up with his fists clenched so hard his nails had dug bloody crescents into his palms.

Dean couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten a full night’s sleep. Of course, he’d  _never_  gotten the proper amount, not since his mother died, but at least before this Mark of Cain crap he’d had fairly consistent hours.

Now, though… Dean knew from trudging into the bathroom before dawn that dark bags hung under his eyes, and his hair had lost its sheen. His skin was pale, and if he were in a better mood, he’d joke that he was turning into some kind of vampire. Which was in poor taste, because been there, done that.

What the  _fuck_  was his life.

Dean scrubbed a hand down his face. His eyelids were heavy, but nightmares danced on the other side, and man, he was over those. He’d thought his memories of Hell were bad, but the Mark had put a fresh spin on them, mixed them into a cocktail of pure terror. He didn’t know where the torturing started and ended. Sometimes he was in the driver’s seat, and sometimes he was the victim, but either way, he  _liked_  it. 

Jesus fucking Christ.

The bunker was silent as Dean bent to press his forehead to the table. It was nice and cool, but almost immediately, he thought about bashing his head into it so hard that wooden splinters lodged in his skull. He could already picture the blood, and the dent in his head…

Dean’s eyes burned, and he closed them against the useless tears that threatened to spill. 

He couldn’t do this. He was too tired to fight. He wasn’t strong enough, he wasn’t good enough. He was never good enough. It was all his fault. He deserved to die, he deserved to suffer. 

A faraway part of Dean’s mind knew that, while these were true emotions he felt, it was just the lack of sleep that heightened their intensity. It didn’t help that it was the middle of the night, and he was all alone. That’s always when everything seemed worse. He’d feel better in the morning, he knew - not by much, but enough to function without breaking down. 

“Dean?” came a low voice on the edge of a yawn. 

Dean, his head buried in his arms on the table, didn’t stir. 

“Dean, are you alright?” Cas said again, because of course it was Cas. The angel had spent the night again - though Dean couldn’t imagine why. If Cas really wanted to watch him turn into the demon he really was, well, then that was his choice. 

Which was funny, because before, Dean couldn’t make Cas stay. 

And now, he couldn’t make the stubborn bastard go. 

Dean warred with himself about how he felt about that.

Part of him was grateful, and surged toward the warmth of Cas, now padding up beside him. 

The other part wanted to lash out, tell Cas to leave him alone. He just wasn’t worth it, not when Cas had his own problems to deal with.

Yet another part fluttered at Cas’s nearness. Freaking  _fluttered_ like he was a teenage girl with a crush. 

Dean would’ve normally stamped down that part without a thought, but he was just too tired. 

When Cas touched his arm, Dean pressed his cheek against his hand. 

“So tired, Cas,” he mumbled to the table. 

Cas’s squeezed and then his hand swept up Dean’s arm to land on his shoulder.

His right shoulder, right over where the handprint had been.

The effect was instantaneous.

Dean sat bolt upright, but Cas’s hand couldn’t be dislodged. It was like it was sealed on. 

But honestly, Dean barely felt it. He was far beyond his physical body, bathed in light that blinded him and comforted him. He felt warm, there, wherever his mind had transported him, warm and safe and -

Dean gasped at the love that suffused him. He staggered beneath its weight, and just as tears burst behind his eyes, it was over.

Dean stared at the war room table, breathing hard and vaguely registering that Cas was standing next to him. Dean glanced over at the angel to find Cas’s eyes wide and his mouth agape. 

“Cas?” Dean tried, but his voice was so choked he couldn’t speak.

Cas’s jaw worked for a moment, but he appeared equally speechless, though also horrified. He refused to meet Dean’s eyes. 

What the heck?

Surely this wasn’t the first time Cas had touched the handprint since he’d saved Dean. Right? So why had it reacted so strongly all of a sudden? What could have possibly changed?

The thought hit Dean like a freight train. 

Cas loved him. And Dean  _loved him back._

Because that love that overtook him was unmistakably  _Cas_ , and for the first time, Dean had felt warm and safe in its presence. He had basked in it, even, let it fill him up…

Oh god.  _Oh god_. What was Dean supposed to do with this information?

Cas was still frozen beside him, but his eyes shifted to finally meet Dean’s. They were scared and watery, pleading.

“Cas,” Dean croaked. “I…” But he couldn’t say anything else.

Cas’s expression softened. He slid into the chair beside Dean and hesitantly reached over to clasp Dean’s hands. He brought Dean’s hands up to his mouth and gently pressed his lips to each knuckle. Cas frowned when he turned them over to see the scrapes on his palms, but then he kissed them, too. 

Dean couldn’t breathe throughout the whole thing. His heart pounded, and his skin felt clammy.

“I know,” Cas said, and his smile was small. “I know.”

Dean trembled as Cas leaned forward and bowed their foreheads together. His breaths were warm in Dean’s face. 

“You should sleep,” Cas said, and before Dean could protest, he stroked a hand down his cheek. “I’ll join you. Come on.” He stood and pulled an unresisting Dean along with him toward his bedroom. 

And that night, with Cas curled up beside him, the creature he loved and who loved him back, Dean slept better than he had in years. 


End file.
